"Et then we all made up and lived 'appily ever after! Fini!"
A rather intoxicated Francis babbled, ending the fairy tale he had been telling himself with a slobbish round of self congratulation and applause.
"I know, I know. I am brilliant" France grinned, bowing to his reflection in the hand mirror he had balanced precariously against a stack of old Playboy magazines.

Reaching around twitching until he found a wine bottle the Frenchman bought the glass up close to his face, squinting his eyes so he could see the contents. He shook the bottle once, then twice.
"Ah, merde! It is empty!" he wailed, throwing it behind him where it crashed into a pile of green glass near his wardrobe.
Sobbing slightly at his lack of the beautiful red drink Francis looked back down to the small mirror glinting in the light from the fire he'd started in his waste paper bin.

"This is all your fault!" he yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at the man in the glass who widened his eyes in shock.
"Why did vous 'av to go and fall in love avec Angleterre?" the man in the mirror looked upset at this sudden abusive behaviour and slowly began to pout.
"Désolé.." Francis sighed, hugging his knees in defeat and rocking back and forwards.

This was ridiculous, he had been fine this morning, he had had no feelings of love for Arthur, or at least none he'd been aware of. Where was this feeling coming from? This burning jealousy and this feeling as though someone had stabbed him right in the heart with a knife formed out of betrayal and spitefulness. He hated, he hated it with a blazing fury, perhaps as much as he hated-

"Amérique" France spat, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"'e is taking mon Angleterre away on purpose! Zat..zat..fucker!"
Shocked at the foul language that had just spilled out of his mouth the Frenchman pantomimed zipping his lips together before grabbing a pen and paper and setting to work.

Le plan of Francis Bonnefoy, certified irresistable lover

. Drink it a lot.

Looking down at his first point and then around his room piled high with empty glass bottles Francis concluded he was off to a good start. Even if he did feel a bit queasy..

all phone calls/texts from Amérique et Angleterre
any physical contact with the above
not sleep with Angleterre
with prostitutes instead

Suddenly France was hit by waves of nausea, his pen skittered along the paper as he failed to write his sixth point. They crashed into him like harsh waves, forcing him to double over clutching his stomach.
"Ah mon dieu..." he groaned, his stomach now churning and the all too familiar feeling of impending vomit beginning to settle in his throat.

Once France had emptied the contents of his stomach several times over the Frenchman slowly crawled back across his floorboards to find the list he had left uncompleted. Picking up his Biro he sprawled the last few words across the bottom of the page.

drinking.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut he let the next nauseating wave push him into unconsciousness.

OoOo

The next couple of months were very hard to withstand. Luckily there were no more UN or G20 meetings yet it seemed as though the new 'couple' were everywhere Francis went.

An outing to a café in his capital for a lunch date with a gorgeous brunette girl by the name of Annie had been ruined when France happened to look up across his coffee mug and see Alfred and Arthur crossing the street to come through the door. He had hastily apologised to the girl, making up a believable work excuse, before slipping quietly out the side door and into the back alleys.

A Sunday afternoon spent quietly sitting in a park in London, the sun shining brightly down and the relaxing sound of laughter all round, had been interrupted by the American and Englishman casually strolling along, their hands entwined as they stared lovingly into each other's eyes. France had felt physically ill and as soon as he saw their heads begin to turn for a kiss he grabbed his satchel and ran. He knew it was pathetic and the great Francis Bonnefoy shouldn't be turning on his heel yet he couldn't cope if he saw that. Hiding behind a tree until he saw the couple leave France gulped in huge gasps of air. It felt as though his organs had shut down with the effort of making himself not care.

The final straw was when the Frenchman was in the last place he ever wanted anyone to find him in. Touching shaking fingers to the faded gravestone in front of him France let himself shed a few tears. "Jeanne.." the girl's perfect features swam into his mind and more tears fell down his cheeks. Placing a red rose like he did every year upon the stone Francis pushed himself back off the ground, his long legs barely holding him up as he stared down at the words etched in the granite.
It was all Arthur's fault, it was that bastard Englishman's fault that he didn't have his beautiful Jeanne.

"I hate that I love him Jeanne, I really do" Francis whispered, letting his blonde hair fall into his face and obscure his vision. The tears wouldn't stop now and he had to put a hand out to lean on the grave so to stop himself from falling to his knees once more.

"France?" his whole body hardened. Footsteps crunched on the gravel and soon enough he felt a person's arm resting against his as they stood next to him. What was Arthur doing here? Him of all people should never set foot in this sacred land.
"I noticed it was that time of year again" England said softly, now gazing with an unrecognisable expression on his face at the gravestone in front of them.
He bent down for a second and when he stepped away a single lily was resting next to the rose that France had previously placed there.

Francis said nothing. He had no words he wanted to utter to the venomous murderer that had killed the girl he loved. Love might have been what he had been feeling for Arthur in the past months yet on this one day love was as far from his mind as it ever could be. Hatred pumped through his veins.
"Did vous come alone?"
England's face tightened and he swallowed stiffly.
Non..of course he didn't France thought resignedly

A low call of the Briton's name echoed around them followed by the sound of lumbering footsteps up the stone paved path. By now the tears in Francis' eyes had dried up and the Frenchman was feeling far from sociable. Gritting his teeth France turned his head away from the approaching American and met England's large eyed gaze.

"If vous 'ad any respect for me ou Jeanne vous would not 'av bought Amérique here"
Arthur opened his mouth to speak
"Non – I do not want to hear it. Go to your little 'boyfriend' Angleterre. Try to find a shred of kindness in his heart."

Without a single word more the Frenchman turned away from Arthur's perplexed expression and began walking hastily away. America had not seen him and he intended to keep it that way. Ducking behind various grave stones and shrubs along the way France eventually managed to get to the wrought iron gate that bore the exit. His confident bravado faded as he stepped down the cobbled steps to where his car was parked.

By the time he was sitting safely in the driver's seat the waterworks had sprung a leak once more. Not bothering to wipe his eyes dry Francis leant his head back against the headrest and stared hard up at the roof of his vehicle.
The last time he'd had to sneak around like this he was in a much different predicament...

OoOo

"Merde!" Francis screeched, shaking his hair frantically and pulling the flimsy silky material off his golden locks. Trust him to walk into a spiders web! What he really wanted to know is why there were spider's webs in the first place – didn't Angleterre ever clean up his home?

Then again, this wasn't exactly an expected visit. He was sure London would've been more sanitary had the Englishman known of his arrival. Peering around a street corner and squinting his eyes against the dusk of the early evening France scanned the buildings in front of him for anything vaguely recognisable.

"Mon dieu...it cannot be that hard." scowling down at the map of London he had previously ripped from a library book he followed the line of which he'd drawn in thick ink to direct him to his destination. According to this he should be just a street away.

Making sure no-one was following him by a quick glance over his shoulder Francis seemed satisfied and continued walking. The temperature had plummeted steeply since his arrival and he now shivered involuntarily, his thin silk shirt and waistcoat not providing valid insulation against the bitter wind.

A policeman passed him turning his baton over in his hands and the Frenchman stiffened ever so slightly, he had nothing to fear of course, the police force wouldn't know that he was a country or anything along those lines yet he was still wary. Keeping his head down as the officer passed Francis hoped to God that England's house wasn't too far.

Eventually France found the flat, it was blindingly plain and had only a small unkempt garden at the front before a peeling black painted door was in view. Stunned at the prospect of Arthur actually living in this abomination Francis cautiously went to knock on the wood door. Nothing happened for around a minute or so until a light flickered on and the sound of footsteps down a flight of creaking stairs was heard.

Several locks gratingly snapped open before Arthur opened the door a crack and stared out. His eyes narrowed as soon as he took in the Frenchman's figure and he hastily tried to slam the door shut again. Putting his hand out France grabbed onto the wood and forced it to stay still, the motion not causing him much strain for he was a prospering nation. England on the other hand had beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he fought to keep Francis out of his home.

"Vous will only tire yourself out, mon ami" France smiled sadly, meeting the Briton's gaze. A few more seconds of abusive eye contact passed before England finally tired and let the door swing out of his grip. Francis had to force himself to keep smiling. Arthur looked terrible; his clothes looked old and soiled, his hair was matted and uncombed, and his face...he could have easily passed for around forty. He looked so worn down and beaten.

"What do you want, frog?" England said sceptically as he stepped back and wandered through another door into another room of his property. Inside it was reasonably cheerful, somewhere you might expect the Briton to live. A half finished crossword puzzle sat next to a cup of tea on a small table and a fire was steadily burning in the fireplace. Not until France got closer did he see that the puzzle page was dated three months prior and that when he touched his fingers to the tea cup the contents was ice cold.

"What is going on Angleterre? Why are you living like..like..this?" he gestured around the room with a look of masked disgust before his eyes settled on the kitchen table. Around five piles of unopened envelopes sat in neat stacks on it's surface, each stamped with the red letters proclaiming them as 'URGENT.'

Arthur sat down on a footstool near the fire and attempted to warm his hands over the flickering flames: when that failed he moved on to blowing warm air onto them and rubbing them together to create his own heat.
"I am just a little behind on my payments is all. Nothing to worry about"
he blew on his hands once more "It's certainly not something that concerns you anyway."

So that was it. England was in debt. Serious debt by the looks of things. Walking carefully across the creaking floorboards Francis picked up one of the crisp envelopes and sliced it open with his thumb nail. Arthur seemed to be either unaware of his actions or was aware and just not able to find it in him to care. France nearly choked on his own breath as he looked down at the bold printed numbers on the letter. This was ridiculous! England couldn't owe that much! ...Could he?

"Was there something you wanted Francis? Otherwise I think you should leave" Arthur stoked at the fire as though just to find something to occupy his hands with, he didn't do a very good job though and the flames spat out at him, charcoal once again staining his already burnt trousers.

This wouldn't do. France couldn't let this continue, he wouldn't let it. Glancing down once more to the figures on the page he decided that he couldn't help out Arthur financially despite how much he wanted to. Being here would be a start. He would look after the person, not the country. That was as much as he could do.

Picking the rather delicate man up from the floor by his elbows Francis ignored the half hearted accusations, curses and violence aimed at him as he looped England's arm around his neck for support.
"Vous are filthy Angleterre, time for a bath I think, non?"
"A bath? I can bloody well clean myself you pervert!"
"Obviously not though" France muttered under his breath as he helped the Englishman up the rickety stair case and towards what he presumed was the bathroom.

It took a great deal of effort to finally get Arthur to disrobe and be willing to step into the water yet once Francis had insisted and had to swear on his life that he wouldn't peek at the Briton's nude form England seemed a little more content and settled in the bath.
Rolling his sleeves up and kneeling by the side of the porcelain tub Francis let warm water rise up until he could no longer see the Briton's knees through the liquid before he managed to find some soap and a wash cloth and begin what he now saw as his 'duty'

"This is so degrading..." Arthur grumbled as he wrapped his arms around his thin legs and let the Frenchman scrub his hair clean of all it's dirt and tangles. Francis made a point of ignoring him and began humming under his breath his national anthem to keep his mind at ease.

To be quite honest France wasn't sure what he doing, he had wanted to help the Englishman, he knew that much, but, how was this helping? In his mind he had a picture of the Arthur he knew, all clean cut, blushing, cursing and perhaps tending to his garden or working on an embroidery sampler. That was what he wanted to see again. In a way he thought that if he could make the man himself feel better about himself then the country's recession would soon start to lift.

It was a stupid hope yet it kept Francis going. Picking up a bristled brush from the pile of wash items by his feet the Frenchman applied soap to its spiky form before scrubbing ruthlessly at Arthur's skin. Curses erupted from the Englishman yet France just sang louder, closing his eyes at points so not to see the raw pink colour that the Briton's skin was turning from being cleaned to it's core.

Obviously Arthur wouldn't let France wash his more private areas so Francis handed over a flannel and just sat back with his eyes averted so not to give the Englishman any reason to yell at him. His eyes might have slipped back to sneak just a few glances once or twice but other than that he very much stuck to his word.

Once France was convinced that not a single ounce of dirt was left on the Englishman's body, for which he had to conclude by way of a thorough inspection of course, he let the Briton step out of the bath tub and be wrapped in a large fluffy yellow towel. He hoped that it wasn't his imagination that conjured up the thankful gaze he thought he saw on England's face.

"Do vous need help rubbing yourself dry, mon petit?" France smirked, now draining the bath of it's water and scrubbing down the sides so not to leave any stains. England shot the Frenchman a rage filled scowl over his shoulder before spitting out "Only in your fuckin' dreams, wine bastard" Francis laughed softly before standing back up and following Arthur out the bathroom graciously. Not to much surprise on France's part England slammed the bedroom door shut on him as he went to change into some clean clothes, so the Frenchman waited patiently out in the corridor.

It wasn't going to be easy: being in London guiding his ally along the road to recovery. It was going to be especially hard keeping this from his government who would most likely contort it into a universal matter if they got wind of it. Biting his lip France wondered if he was doing the right thing, perhaps it would be better to let England get himself out of this recession by himself? Arthur would probably much prefer it that way.

The bedroom door clicked open interrupting Francis' thoughts and he turned his head. England walked out looking considerably better and less like the disheveled man France had met at the door just a mere half hour ago. His face still had the appearance of being lined and his eyes looked tired yet everything else looked like it was practically normal, the grey dress trousers, the white shirt with a silk backed green waistcoat over the top, a dark green tie round his neck, hair still sticking out in tufts despite being combed, the usual self assured smirk.

It was a start, and Francis was insanely grateful for it.
"Now, are you going to make yourself useful and make me some dinner or what?" Arthur raised his large eyebrows and stuck his nose in the air with the the dignity of an aristocrat.
Another laugh escaped the Frenchman's lips and he nodded "Maybe – depends if I can find anything worth cooking pour vous in that thing you call a pantry"
Arthur's mouth fell open in shock "I'll have you know my pantry-
"Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé! Contre nous de la tyrannie" Francis burst out into song, cutting the Englishman off mid sentence.

His left eye twitching slightly the Briton put all his remaining energy into chasing France down the stairs, swearing like a sailor all the way.

OoOo

Now at home stretched out across his leather sofa Francis let himself smile at the memory he had just revisited. It hadn't been easy to sneak around to see England but he had managed it and eventually the Briton was as narcissistic as he ever had been. Though now in the current economic climate Arthur was once again in recession the Englishman seemed to have gained some tips on keeping himself in shape and he never once was seen looking as run down as France had seen him the first time round.

That bought him back to the present once more, the memory of his visit to the graveyard that had been pushed to the back of his mind for weeks now. Once no more tears had been shed from his eyes France had sat there thinking for hours, thinking about him, thinking about Arthur, thinking about Alfred, thinking himself into a hole.

In the end he had decided that he was best of without the company of the Englishman, that he would be happier in himself if he didn't trail around after a man whom Cupid's arrow had already hit. Later that same day he had called up that girl 'Annie' that he had had to abandon on their coffee date when the arrival of America and England had sent him fleeing. Sometimes a night of passionate meaningless sex is all you can do to get somebody off your mind.

Arthur was a past fixation now, just like all France's previous crushes and one night stands. England was history, past tense. That door would never be opened again. Just as Francis was about ready to open a nice bottle of Sauvageon Blanc and settle down to watch some afternoon reality television to pass the time a knock was heard at the door.

Frowning, France set down the silver remote control on the arm rest of the settee and slowly hauled himself up. Perhaps it was a delivery from Spain or Prussia? They sometimes sent him girls as a joke. Feeling his hopes rise just a tiny bit at this previous thought Francis sped up a little bit. He opened the door with a large smile on his face. The person on the other side of the door frame didn't return the pleasantry.

"Arthur?" Francis asked, confused as he watched the streams of moisture run from the Englishman's eyes. Without a word Arthur stumbled forwards and grabbed onto the Frenchman, hugging him tightly and staining France's shirt with the moisture of his tears. Unsure of what to do France remained unresponsive for as long as could. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to comfort the Briton even If he knew it was unhealthy for him.

Tightening his arms around England's quivering form Francis rested his cheek against the soft strands of Arthur's golden hair. No words were needed and no words were wanted. All that mattered was that the Englishman was here. Shaky fingers touched to France's lips and the Frenchman, startled, glanced down to see Arthur looking up at him with moist eyes.

It seemed only natural then for the two nations to close the distance between them with a gentle touch of the lips.

TO BE CONTINUED...